Sunday, January 30, 2011

Chance meeting

"I would've liked more caramel sauce on top," says the sun crocodile.
This does not compute but fan robot's politeness chip does not let it tell the crocodile this.

Sunday, January 23, 2011

"Saturday Night's Alright (For Fighting)" - LYRIXXX

transcription of one of my favorite Elton John songs, Saddaday Nite's Awh Righ (Fuh Faddin)
A scaddadem lehdeh, have ya seen mah legs, a teh meh when mah boyz gehyin
Es seden a'clock n I wanna rock
Wawna gedda belleh full a bieah
Maholman's a glonka bena barul fulla monkehs en mah ol ladeh she down cayeh
Thsista looks cute in a brishis an boots, a hanful a greez in huh haih

Oh, dangivis nanana aggrivashah, we hidah dis ghisso plan
Oh, Saddaday nite's ah righ fuh faddin, gidda lidda action in
Giddle boddle soddles an some diesel trine, gonna sit this dance awlight
Saddaday nih's tha nide I like, Saddaday nite's awh rih awh rih awh RIIIIH
Ooh oohooh ooh

Well the pat priiteh taht in heauyh dinih, I'm lookin for a dolla da see me rye
Igood usah liddle muscle too get wadd I need
Igood stink a liddle drink n showdout TRIPANEE!
I goddalodda souns dat I rilleh like, adda souns ofa switchblade enna moh-duh-biyke
Ahva juvehnile product of the wer-kin class hoose bes fren close iffa bottuh uvva glaass

Ohhhh, dan givis nanana aggrivashah, we hidah dis ghisso plan
Oh, Saddaday nite's ah righ fuh faddin, gidda lidda action in
Giddle boddle soddles an some diesel trine, gonna sit this dance awlight
Cuz Saddaday nih's tha nydy like, Saddaday nite's awh rih awh rih awh RIIIIH
Ooh oohooh ooh


-- special thanks to Hazel, who is my Johnspiration and can type I WAWRNT LURAARVH better than anyone

Saturday, January 22, 2011

As far back as I can remember, I always wanted to lazily title a blog post by stealing that line from Goodfellas

You startled me.
You’ve got to learn to stop being so attractive. Look at you there. Is that an entire Totino’s frozen pizza you’re eating? You know, they’re called Party Pizzas. I like guys who party. Do you like the way my back stoops? I was born that way, honey.
I know what you’re thinking: “This slut wants something from me.” Is your internal voice as sexy and wheezy as your real one? I bet it’s even hotter. Would you like having warm baby oil rubbed on your floppy male breasts as we make ungainly love to Pure Moods Vol. 2? The second volume is really similar to the first but better because there's even more Enya.
I bet you would, but I don’t want to rush things. Let’s take it slow. Can I try to guess your social security number? I like you. I hope you like that picture of me up there. That’s not yogurt on my chest, if you catch my drift. I think it’s sour cream.
Drop me your didges and there’s more where that came from. I have a picture of me that I found on a photobomb blog where I’m sticking an entire corn dog down my throat behind a family of German tourists. You can tell they’re German from the backpacks XOXOXOXO
Bitsy Titwittster

Monday, January 10, 2011

Animal products

Animal fashion parade! Animal fashion parade!
Or, as the French say, le baisage de animaux!

Cool vicuña scarf! Another cool thing: I am not totally sure what differentiates a vicuña from an alpaca or llama, but I got a little handmade Peruvian vicuña toy from Ten Thousand Villages once because my friends made us walk in just as they were closing and I felt bad for the cashier. That's probably less of a cool thing than a random and meaningless memory of an insignificant event. Also, it was in Austin!

We get frunch and back views of these beaver jeans, which have a slit in the back for its fucking weird paddle tail. (Fun side project: never google "beaver slit pants Fran Drescher"!) These pants put the FUN in FUNCTIONAL and the JEANS in JEe, whAt exactly is a wombat, aNyway(S)?

The idea for this FUNctional (never gets old!!!!) wristwatch is that the mole can see it in the dark and the numbers are big enough for its tiny eyes to read. I was a bit generous in drawing this mole's eye, because they basically don't have any, like the Gary Larson cartoon freaks of nature they are. Have you ever seen a star-nosed mole? That and that alone is the reason scientists don't believe in God.

Aren't bats one of your favorite of God's mistakes? Me neither. At least this one can dance like a MAAAANIAC MAAAANIAC ON THE FLOOOOR! Haha, kidding, it exists only to terrify you with its hellish demon face and fangs. At least when this furry little hellbeast does that creepy arm-wing-crawl towards your exposed neck as you sleep tonight, it will be wearing fabulous leg warmers.

Did you know that armadillos can carry leprosy? Good thing this one is wearing SUCH a slimming sweater, though, or I'd be disgusted by that. Fun fact: in the time it took you to read the caption for this picture so far, approximately 5,200 armadillos were hit by cars in the state of Texas. Is that true? You're too busy googling that Fran Drescher beaver thing now to ever know.

If you have any fun animal fashion ideas, let me know and I won't definitely not steal it from you!

Thursday, January 6, 2011

The Soulcry of Dejection

Another rejection letter.

The handfeel of the creased envelope is light, inside unmistakably a single watermarked sheet informing me politely that the publisher is looking to head in another direction. A direction away from me. Me and my words. A deep sigh emanates from the sick pressure that weights my stomach.

Will no one hear my poetry, I softly wonder. Mindlessly I unwedge with my tongue moist granules of gristle embedded in the valleys of molars. Sticky pork reminders of my least meal. A wave of dejection crests and curls over my heart and entombs my core in a torpidly throbbing sea of ache.

With a thick fingernail I scratch at a bunched corner of the manuscript. My eyes idly glide over my shining words jet-inked on Ultra Bright White pages.

Yes, my words. They are my words. I know I am good enough. I have a blog.

The way I know I am crying is by the shaking of my shoulders. Seismic vibrations of ultimate sadness. Hot numb tears splash cruelly onto my pages, soaking and obscuring peripheral and temerity. I remembered a story my uncle once told me.

“Did you know that earthquakes are caused by God laughing?” he told me once on a lazy, sticky summer Wednesday. His accent was alfalfa-sweet. Bright and sharp.

When I was so young I was afraid to meet his eyes for his appearance frightened me. I loved to spend time with him to hear his stories about the war, almost tasting the smells of army-rationed beef and sweat and cigar smoke and man-farts in his bunker, but the streaky pale scars etched across his face from a hominy threshing accident made me feel ill at ease. I scanned the ink line of grackles perched across the top of our gnarled and rusted chain link fence.

“But earthquakes cause ever so much death and destruction” was my precocious reply as I dug my naked, callused toes into the dusty Alabaman earth.

He leaned in close and even as I stood by my oaken desk as an adult, 24 years later, I could still sense the thick musk of his wintergreen Skoal and horse-smelling sweat bristling on the golden tips of my nostril hairs. “That’s why He laughs,” he wheezed through dusky lips.

Across the stack of manuscripts my arm jerked like a dumb pendulum, scattering them all over the room. Askew white islands of complex genius winking up from the dark ocean of cherry floorboards. When my sobs took me again I dropped hellward.

I seized a manuscript and flapped it tauntingly to the heavens. I gurgled as loud as I could dare: “How will the wretched human race hear about your adventures now, Professor Tinker F. Beanbags?!”

I hurled it against the bone-colored drywall. What would the Professor say?

Bleep blop, he would intone with his interminable robot logic.

Would the Professor even understand tears? Would he understand what it is like in the human heart when God laughs?

In the ceiling fan’s wind the pages around me flap like bony grackle wings. Flish-swish. Flish-swish. And the grumbling of my stomach as it yearned for more pork rolled across my apartment like sad Southern thunder over my uncle’s grave.

perchance one day, professor...

Saturday, January 1, 2011

Fighting the power, one triangular orange-striped establishment at a time

The system fails everyone. You’re not special. You can read about it flippantly, like you're doing to these words right now, without bothering to fully let the comprehension of your utter insignificance soak through you. Maybe the sheer faceless mass of the collective machine of human institutions can only be felt personally as your tiny self is ground through it, your nuances whipped into a thick homogeneity and ignored, condescended to, and marketed to. Free will exists only as an idea to be exploited. Are you beginning to understand now? Are you angry? Do you want to beat back against this ingrained impotence and flail your fists against the invisible, dehumanizing structures of governance that we’ve somehow accepted without even realizing their stunningly insulting contradictions to basic human dignity?

Well, you can do something. Listen carefully if you even want to dream of recovering the self-worth that every human, as a sentient intelligent cultural being, deserves from the moment of birth to the last gasp of living breath. Now: get out your stationery of justice and write a letter to the Whataburger on Highway 518 in Pearland, Texas, demanding they refund me my $4.55—which doesn’t even include sales tax!—for my undercooked three-pack of chicken tenders. They would not give me my money back over the phone because I had “already eaten them” (—actual disgusting quote from weekend day manager Tyffani, who would not give me a last name despite my repeated screeching demands). Stand with me, righteous in the cold face of injustice, and reclaim your agency. Reclaim your humanity. Reclaim everything that you've been deprived of without your knowledge or permission. You deserve this.